Will Self - The Book of Dave

To be replaced, on the fringes of the crowd unloading the pedalo, by the rubicund face of Antonë Böm, who came forward at once to assist. He was greeted with much warmth by the fowlers. Orlrì, Ant, they said clapping him on the shoulder, lookívis 1, and they thrust into his arms the floppy carcass of a blackwing. However, there was little time for chitchat since the fowl had to be unloaded and stored in the fridges for the night. At first tariff the serious business of dividing the catch, plucking, gutting and currying them would begin.

The following evening there would be a Dave's curry — the last of the year. Fred Ridmun would offer up half his own share, together with half that of the stack jumper, for the consumption of the rest. A further quarter portion of the Guvnor's would be snuck away to the Gayt and placed before the monumental bronze head that lay near the southern shore. Despite the calling over of the Driver, most Hamsters remained convinced that this enigmatic, bearded visage was that of Dave himself. The quantifiable offering was significant, for, as exact as they were in all aspects of their property — according ownership to the last peck of wheatie and drip of oil — so their cohesion was preserved by gifting. Power resided not among those who retained their bounty but among those who divested themselves of it.

Eased by the hottest cupasoup the opares could provide, his aching limbs massaged with oil, his curry-cracked feet bathed, Carl sat in front of the fire in the Brudi gaff and absorbed the warm fug. He had recounted his jump and the scramble up the stack. He had frightened the little ones with his vivid enactment of his near-fall, as he leaned low to grab the sentinel blackwing and his hands slipped on the rope. He told how he had hung from a buddyspike root for long units and the memory ghost had visited him, so that he saw the Sentrul Stac sheathed in golden glass, and through this translucent skin appeared beautiful angels, clad in jeans and jackets of the finest cut. They were playing upon curious plastic instruments and their silent airs were kaleidoscopes of imagery on sparkling mirrors.

The Guvnor looked on approvingly, for this too was the way of it: the stack jumper's tale was a vital addition to the story the community told of itself, one of humans spitting in the indifferent face of Nature. After Carl had recounted it in this gaff, he would sally forth and retell it in all the others, until the entire manor was buzzing with his accomplishment.

Pausing, flushed with this approbation, and preparing to dive under the stone lintel of the Funch gaff, Carl saw a pale flash at the end of the manor. For an instant he wanted to ignore the signal, but what then? He sloshed down the sodden bank of the stream. Screenwash was falling, softening the night, and his feet were numb. Antonë Böm was waiting for him at the seaward end of the Dévúsh gaff, his broad back propped against the mossy brick. It was so dark that Carl could only make out his mentor's beard, wavering like a moth.

— Eyev bin bizzë, he said without any preamble, Eye gó ve geer awl stashed up bì ve wallos. Takeaway, oil an evian — awl Eye cúd nik wivaht bein sussed. We gotta go nah, Carl, rì nah.

— But Eye onlee juss gó bak, innit. Eye onlee juss toal mì storë an vat … As Carl trailed off, Böm's hand tightened on his arm, his face came up close, the lenses of his spectacles were two owlish discs.

— Carl, he said simply, we go nah aw nevah. Nah aw nevah.

The night pressed in on them, a nightjar chirred, the sea snatched at the shoreline. Carl felt the whole of his life slipping away — perhaps it would have been better to have fallen from the Stac? He had a sudden image of his body lying in the milky waves, the gulls pecking at his bloody face.

When Fred Ridmun, early to rise, opened the heavy door of the gaff to admit the foglight to its dark interior, he first noticed that Dave's demister had powered up, leaving a bright autumnal day. Then, tracking the bigwatt from the doorway, he saw lying in its exact oblong the copy of the Book that was held by the Guvnor. It was open on the table, a handful of Daveworks scattered on its thick yellow A4S. He let out a cry that woke the rest of the dads. For Fred Ridmun knew immediately what this meant: it was the Hamster way that a traveller departing on a journey off the island left the Book thus, and therefore his stepson must be gone.

Tyga and Sweetë, old Runti's mopeds, had been easy to drive. They always foraged in the woodlands immediately beyond the wallows. Hunnë and Champ, Pippin's mopeds, were a trickier proposition. Carl left Antonë with half the rank and the changingbags, while he ventured down into Sandi Wúd. Foglight streamed between the trees, while up above them piled brilliant white clouds, their undersides glowing mauve and orange. New leaf fall swished beneath Carl's feet, and, despite his haste to find the motos, he was still awed by the beauty of his homeland.

At last, Carl found the two motos on the shoreline below the thick undergrowth of Turnas Wúd. They were sunk deep in a slough covered with dead brack and leaves. He roused them by gently stroking their jonckheeres, then brought them fully to consciousness by whispering his plan into their floppy ears. He knew that any resistance on their part would thus be forestalled, for motos would accept any idea — no matter how unusual — as simply an aspect of the new world they'd awoken to. Weer goin onna big wallo, he cooed, me an U 2, an Ant an Tyga an Sweetë. Biggist wallo evah, gonna B luvverlë — yul C.

Hunnë drew her legs up beneath her bulk, rolled sideways on to her slopping tank and then hefted first her front and then her rear end upright. Champ followed suit, with much snorting and gobbling, until he too was on all fours. Wegonna wawwow, Cawl? he asked. Thass rí, said Carl, grabbing a handful of each beast's wattles, and with expert tugs moved them off along the coast towards Mutt Bä. Although the big creatures were still only half awake, they were as surefooted as ever, their long fingers and toes neatly grasping the tree roots that snaked underfoot. Their shuddery breathing smoked the air, and their hot, damp withers gently steamed. Carl buried his hands deeper in the clammy neck folds. Nothing else in the world gave him a feeling of such secure content, and even if he had to leave Ham then at least he'd be taking with him its unique natives. Surely, with four motos to accompany them, the journey to London could not prove too arduous?

He settled Tyga and Sweetë at Mutt Bä, then returned to the wallows, where he found Böm pacing nervously and casting fearful looks towards the manor. Fyahs iz smoakin, he said, vey muss B up, we gotta moovit, Carl. Then all was a pell-mell descent through the woods back down to the shore, Tyga and Sweetë jogging, tanks and changingbags bouncing against their thick necks. The two humans struggled to keep up with them, and Carl was frantic that when the two halves of the rank met up their nuzzling would dislodge the loads.

As it was, Carl and Antonë slithered between the last few trees to find not only the motos butting and bumping but a far more disturbing sight: the Driver. His beard and hair were in wild disarray, his robe was hitched up above his legs, and he wasn't even wearing his mirror. He was brandishing a staff. Oi, U! he screamed as he clapped eyes on them. U — U! He was quite beside himself, swishing the heavy staff back and forth in the air, turning to confront first the motos, then the escapees. Wot djoo fink yaw doin? he managed to say at last. Böm backed off, placing a stand of blisterweed between himself and the hysterical man of Dave, but Carl was suddenly enraged. He ran over and grabbed Tyga's ear, then drove the moto off the rank. Sorlrì, Tyga, he told him, weer juss goin 4 vat big wallo lyke Eye sed. They advanced together on the Driver.